


reassure

by Ericine



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Comfort, Comfort Sex, F/M, Kink Meme, Sara is a badass and anyone who thinks otherwise is lying, Secrets, emily dickinson - Freeform, sex with exes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s not sure at this point what he’d do if he got resolution—probably up and fly away, because fighting has become a part of him long ago and is nearly indistinguishable from who he is. Written for the Stargate Kink Meme. Prompt: Jack/Sara, she knew what he liked (comfort sex).</p>
            </blockquote>





	reassure

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU in which Jack starts hooking up with Sara when he gets to Washington, so this takes place in the same universe as clumsy. I know I have at least a couple other stories about these two up my sleeve, but I'm hesitant to series it up yet. For now, we'll say that this takes place sometimes after clumsy (about three episodes into season 9, if I remember correctly). And the narrative voice in this one belongs to Sara! It was a pleasant surprise that I could hear her voice so clearly in my head.

He comes to see her after his trip to Colorado like he promised—even brings the Greek take-out she likes—but she can tell that it (whatever _it_ was, and she’s been getting a better and better idea for _years_ , but she’s not concerned with figuring that out—she knows the power structure he runs in, knew it even before she ran in a similar one herself, where _classified_ isn’t a frivolous challenge—it’s a life-or-death protection order) was bad, didn't go well, and there's something in his demeanor that unsettles her.

He’s over almost every weekend, maybe a few weeknights. He’s busy, she’s busy, and she knows he’s not bringing up the next logical step here because he’s not sure if she wants to take it.

There’s a good chance that he’s not ready for it either, which is why she says nothing, just gets out the plates and the forks and turns on the TV (she has a nicer place than he does, which is part of the reason he usually comes to her and not the other way around). They don’t have plans to watch anything—it’s just one of the many little security measures they’ve learned to implement over the years, the reason that, given the choice, he instinctively positions himself at a vantage point when he enters a room, even at home to a certain extent, even in a place where his guard is lowered.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks. Somewhere low and deep inside, she aches for him, for the him from a simpler time, even though she knows now, probably better than she ever has, that the simpler time for him may have existed even before her, before Charlie (the thought stings, and she waits for it to pass), before she came to know him and associate him with words like _home_ and _safety_ and _stability_.

She doesn’t associate the man before her now with any of those things. She knew that the moment she looked up into his face, the coffee staining her blouse, burning into her skin.

Then again, she doesn’t associate herself with those things either. Not anymore.

“I do,” he says, “but I can’t.”

She nods and waits. The food’s ready and open on the table, but he hasn’t moved from the living room chair he’d sat down in when he walked in (her kitchen, her rules).

“Something new’s come up,” he says. “Daniel’s scared.”

“Daniel” is one of the people he works with, one of the names from long ago that he’s brought up again to her. She will know more of the story one day, but for now, she makes a quick association in her mind. One of his longest friends from the war. Nontraditional. Formidable.

Scared.

“He told you?” she asks.

He smiles a little, just a little. She’s thankful for them, for this team that he loves so much, for this team that means so much to him. It’s not self-destruction that pushed him to take a desk job she knows eats away at him. She knows this now. It’s love. It’s a realization that stirs something warm in her, whispers something into her heart that she has spent years training herself not to hear.

Jack nods. “I told him it would be okay.” He smiles a little, and it’s a knowing look he shoots her. They both know what it’s like to reassure, to surround distress with a white lie hug of comfort, kind haven and cruel lie all in one. 

It’s that reassurance he wants now, the reassurance she realizes he’s asking her for. He’s never been one for lies, hates them. That’s why they don’t talk much these days—there are too many elephants in the room to step around, so they don’t walk into the room. 

He wants reassurance, not resolution (and she’s not sure at this point what he’d do if he got resolution—probably up and fly away, because fighting has become a part of him long ago and is nearly indistinguishable from who he is). He never takes the easy way out. There’s a lot wrapped up in that—duty, honor, and a whole bunch of other words of legend that captured her heart what seems like a lifetime ago. There are other things that come with that, though. Truth— _reality_ —hurts. He’s accepted that, and it’s broken him, but he’s whole in his brokenness, and it’s something she attempts to make him see her acknowledge, let him _see her see_ , as she plants one knee, then the other, in the crevices between the chair arms and the seat and encircles him in her arms, holds his legs between her thighs.

“Sara,” he murmurs, and it’s only half a protest, because he knows that she’s only answering a question she heard him ask a question as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

He’s trying to protect her, even now.

She kisses him, balancing, leaning forward with her hands on the back of her own neck, warming her hands (her circulation’s always been bad, and it’s only gotten worse with age) before she touches his face.

She pulls away when she feels him relax against her, his hands come up around her hips, pulling her closer, taking the pressure off her back.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she says, meeting his eyes, level, firm, until he half-nods, just a tilt of his head downward that could almost just be a move to kiss her again. She doesn’t wait to make the distinction, kissing him again, letting his tongue slide against hers, kissing him until she feels him hit equilibrium.

He pulls away. “Sara,” he says again, and she smiles at that, because it’s prompting, gentle but full of need. She’s wearing a button-up but only bothered with three of the buttons, and it’s too big because it’s one of his, and she shrugs out of it, easy as anything.

His breath catches, just a little (she’s not wearing a bra—why would she for a night in?), the most subtle of sounds, and she kisses him for that, because in the midst of whatever the hell it was they were doing, there’s no denying that attraction’s still there, then sets to work on his shirt, more slowly than usual because he’s mouthing her breast and she’s leaning into him, can feel him hardening between her legs as his tongue circles her nipple _just like that_ , and she grinds into him as she drops his shirt on the couch next to them. 

She pulls his head up to her mouth, kisses him, pulls his hands to both her breasts (his hands are warm, have always been warm) and rocks into him again, hears him groan into her mouth, and she breaks away from his mouth when he’s breathless, just to whisper into his ear. 

“Trust me.”

She slides off him, then, and he makes like he’s going to get up—to move into the bedroom, presumably—but they’re comfortable here and, more importantly, he’s lost the tension he carried when he entered her apartment. She doesn’t want to give him a chance to remember that (and maybe she’s a little bit selfish—she doesn’t want to stop touching him, now that she’s started).

She stops him, hands on his thighs. He looks intrigued at that, leans back, but he doesn’t question, and she slides her pants and panties down her legs quickly, kicks them aside, before she sinks to her knees (carpeted floor, and thank goodness because she feels the loss of his warmth immediately) and makes quick work of the fly of his jeans. She pulls gently; he lifts his hips, and she pulls the last of his clothes down and away before she slides back up onto him, letting as much of herself touch him as possible—hands on his thighs, then his sides, this his shoulders, then his face. Breasts on his calves, then his knees, then his chest. Thighs back on either side of his, lips on his, tongue against his, heated, hot. His hands on his back, rubbing once up, then down to her hips.

She takes him in her hand, smooth, hard, and lets herself slide against him, slick, hot. He groans, and it’s because she doesn’t usually wait—usually wants the opposite of waiting—but this is important. He’s troubled. He’s _scared_ , and this is part of _reassurance_ , giving him the space to tell her what he wants, even if it’s not in words (and it’s usually not). 

Today, it is. “Sara, please,” he says, and she’s sunken down on him, wet, so ready, before the words are even all the way out of his mouth. 

His mouth’s on her neck, then, warmth on that one tendon, that one scar that’s so sensitive (she hates it), and she can’t help it—she moans, tilting her neck into his mouth, shifting over him, and he groans into her neck. She forces herself to still.

“Jack,” she says, and he doesn’t take his mouth off her neck (evil bastard), but he grips her hips a little tighter, and that means he’s listening. “With me.”

It’s a multi-purpose phrase, one that means both _together_ and _let go_ , and she’s riding him, then, steady but hard, coaxing him to pull her deeper, closer, not to be gentle (she’s never been _gentle_ in bed—he’d know that better than anyone—but there are a lot of things she’s trying to tell him tonight, things he wasn’t open to hearing before but is now, lots of little ways she’s using her body to tell him _I know it’s not alright, but_ this moment _, here, right now, is okay, we’re conscious and feeling and that’s something_ ), clinging to his back, off-balance to one side because one of her knees has slipped, and he’s supporting her weight, which can’t be comfortable for either of their backs (but there’s no pressure on his knees, which is important), but it feels so _damn good_ that neither of them care.

Her head’s back, eyes closed, and he’s somehow managed to get both her breasts in one hand ( _good_ , so good) when he makes _that sound_ , the one that means he’s close, and she doesn’t wait. She’s been teetering on the edge this whole time, and she forces her eyes forward to look directly into his, to jerk her chin up. He slides his free hand between them, and one touch is all it takes.

The sound she hears is guttural, deep, and she’s only partially sure it’s her making the noise, but she can’t hold onto the thought long enough. She’s leaning into him, welcoming the warmth even if it’s damp, and he’s shifting her knee back toward him so she can relax against his chest. He presses his lips to her collarbone, and she takes the hint, kisses him long, slow, and lazy.

“You hurt?” he asks, an old joke between them, a callback to a time toward the beginning of _them_ , a time she hadn’t known it was okay to call back to until right now.

She kisses him again, pokes him with her elbow. “Please.” She raises an eyebrow. “You?”

He breathes in, deeply, shakes his head. Then, he looks around, like he’s just realized where they are. “We’re too—”

She stops him with one finger on his lips. He kisses it with kind of a silly smile, and she’s taken aback for just a moment by something so familiar and yet so foreign. “You know how I feel about clichés.”

“This is anything but a cliché,” Jack says, and Sara thinks about it for a moment. He’s right. This, what they’re doing (some kind of relationship, she thinks, but she doesn’t think it too loudly because she doesn’t want him to read that off her), is deeply satisfying, the combination of comfort and need, both of them wrapped in their secrets—there’s a room full of things they can’t talk about, so they don’t enter it. They stand in the doorway together. Tell all the truth but tell it slant. They’re so far away from convention, so far away from the people that they used to be, and yet, she knows that he is inseparable from this cause, just like she knows that she is inseparable from the skin she wears now, powerful, sharp.

He touches her cheek, his touch warm and calloused, and she’s always loved the way he’s quiet but wears his whole story on his skin. There were parts written in different languages, parts of him that she’s spent years translating, parts of him she's _still translating_ , but he’s open for reading as long as someone knows how to look. “No hurt.”

She reaches next to her for her their clothes, shifts to standing. “I seem to remember a man bringing some grape leaves over here earlier.”

Jack grins. “Now, that sounds fun.”

No hurt right now. There’s plenty of hurting for later, along with everything else.


End file.
